#this is not a difficult concept

[xiaq]

If you're so against JKR why do you still interact with Harry Potter content?

I don’t know how many times I have to say this. You should not support JK Rowling by buying her books or other media from which she receives any kind of benefit. But if people—especially queer people who are processing their frustration with the canon content/creator—want to engage in transformative works, more power to them. There’s a reason that “fixit” fic is so popular. As Jenkins said, “...Fan fiction is a way of the culture repairing the damage done in a system where contemporary myths are owned by corporations instead of owned by the folk.” Feel free to substitute “corporation” with “transphobic, racist, notable coward.”

It’s funny you say I interact with HP content because I largely don’t anymore. My last HP fic is and will likely remain unfinished. And even years ago when I wrote WDWG (which I’m assuming this ask is about), I was operating within the “author is not only dead but we’ve killed her and we’re rifling through her house to take the bits from cannon worth keeping” side of the fandom. As I explicitly state in the fic’s description.

Now, Rowling has poisoned the previous joy I had in HP fandom spaces. But I sure as hell don’t begrudge other folks who still write and create art and find happiness there.

[fruitless-vain]

I’ll never stop being baffled at peoples opinions of the birds’ diet.

Some folks are mad bc I feed several pellet brands which means the guaranteed profiles for each pellet can’t be guaranteed anymore since other foods are being fed in conjunction - ah yes clearly a problem that I’m not relying on one single brand’s nutrients when nobody knows wtf a parrot needs to begin with AND I’m having to juggle a bird with allergies

Some are mad bc they personally hate x brand for whatever personal reason - great, there’s no science behind that so why would I realistically blindly change everything based on your opinion?

And then others just blatantly go “this is bad and your birds are suffering!!!” Where do you see that exactly? What about their feather quality and behaviour suggests that to you? Cause damn I must be blind as hell if glossy shiny strong vibrant feathers and good bloodwork means they’re in poor health.

My favourite is “x says they’re not a full diet you shouldn’t feed it!!” Like, no pellet legally is? And I already feed several wtf are you on about?

“X is missing the right amount of y!!” Says who exactly? What study did you find on parrot nutrition that says that? Cause nearly every nutrient is chosen based off chicken data. Wrong amount for who? For what species? For what stage of life?

When they are the epitome of a healthy bird. The glossiest looking feathers, most consistent pigment, moulting out still looking strong, active and vocal, packed with muscle, and their regular bloodwork continue to show that they are, in fact, extremely healthy

Like? If they were actually shabby in health then sure, I’d want to change something. But obviously their current diet setup is working wonders for them as individuals? Why is that not the main priority here

Why is the concept of different diet plans working better for different species and different individuals and different people/ households such a hard pill to swallow?

[opossumfury]

If you refuse to tag nudity as "NSFW" because it's "not sexual" you're fucking stupid

It's "Not Safe For Work" aka something that could get you in trouble or fired at work. Yes all work places are different, but it's pretty commonly known that most jobs will not be happy if they catch you looking at naked people at all, regardless of how artistic someone else considers it. I personally don't have a problem with more gorey things and I feel it can be artistic. But I also know that it isn't work appropriate in most places. This should be an easy concept to grasp.

If you don't want to tag at all that's up to you. But this whole "I won't tag nudity nsfw because nudity isn't sexuallll" is just done by people who seem to not know what words mean.

[telltaletypist]

in a society that still tells women that it is their duty to prioritize men, male feelings, male perspective, etc, yes it is in fact still radical to say that it's ok for women to go "no fuck that actually"

[socvincjpeg]

No bc if i fumbled ford as badly as bill did i'd be on the news

Edit for clarity: The text says ‘I Grow Maddened’!!

(No bg+ close-up— click for better quality)

[irkedisaac]

why am i seeing so much discussion about [element of the plot that was left a little vague] and not more about [element of the plot that was extremely up-front and clear to everyone]?

[alienssstufff]

Tango redesign yessirrrrrr

[opulence-is-decadence]

Some people will make all sorts of mental gymnastics to believe they're the victim instead of apologizing properly.

[skidcd-megamix]

Those who a.b.a

[kokoasci]

these unpleasant gradients show up at your front door

[fiendish-illos]

wa cha cha i made yet anotha one, boys

look how calm and friendly he looks!! what a charmer :]c

[lsunstreakerl]

if max only moves away from galex to move in with charles, and lestappen still go through their mandatory enemies stage in f1, does that mean that the three (galex+max) still live together even after they have all made it to f1 and they're living together not out of necessity but some kind of trauma bonded choice?🥹

yes :)

it's also that for a good while, they hoard savings. they can't possibly justify moving out or buying new places individually, and there's nothing particularly wrong with their current setup, so... they just stay!

they use their newfound financial security to buy what they need, but they're not good at buying what they want, so the savings account just keeps growing and growing and they sort of have to teach themselves it's okay to buy something just for fun. (being around the other drivers is exposure therapy, in that regard.)

[arget-skular]

QSMP art dump 👍

My beloveds

I'm planning to make figures of all the eggs btw, it just takes a while to get the will to work on anything :')

I'll do a separate post for specifically Death Family drawings tomorrow

[endothermic-rain]

So I made more.

[syndrossi]

Restoration AU: Robb I

Previous part, Arya I, here.

x~x~x

Robb was not allowed out riding, or to join his father’s knights and men-at-arms in search of the ruffians who had kidnapped his young half-brothers and dragged them to Winterfell for ransom or worse, which meant he had sought the yard instead. Even that was a mistake. He could not thrash the targets the way he desired to, not with all the curious eyes upon him.

Show anger, and all would know that there was strife between him and his lord father, that the dishonor had caught their family unaware. And while it would be satisfying to express his fury at the depths of his father’s disloyalty, it would draw attention to his mother as well, inviting cruel whispers.

Robb lowered his sword, stepping back from the target. He exchanged it for his bow, and although the rhythm—draw, aim, release—stilled his thoughts for a short time, they wandered instead to Bran’s excitement when he had found Robb and Jon in the yard that afternoon, touting his discovery.

It seemed a lifetime ago, rather than mere hours. A part of him had known from the moment he laid eyes upon the boys, the dark-haired twin so alike Jon that it had felt like staring at his brother from across the span of five years. Jon’s own shock had been little comfort.

The rumors had not reached his mother before Robb did, after his father’s curt dismissal, and he had been faced with an impossible choice: let her learn of her husband’s betrayal through the whispers of her ladies or break the news himself as gently as he could.

I do not know for certain, he had told her, still fostering the faintest hope that there might be another explanation, but she had paled nonetheless, her attempt at masking her heartbreak to spare him all the more painful.

She loves him. She has always loved him. Robb had thought the same true of his father, and he did not know how much it would hurt to learn otherwise. That Jon’s mother had not been the tryst of a man who thought he might die in battle, but a bed he eagerly sought out the next time fate took him south for war.

Robb lowered his bow, the arrows of his quiver spent, and stared at the distant target, flickering in the torchlight. For once, he was glad that Theon was nowhere to be seen. His friend would have nothing but crude japes, and Robb was in no mood for such.

He desired answers.

His feet took him past Sansa’s room, where he had gently guided her after supper and promised her, with a kiss to the hair, that things would seem less bleak in the morning. Then past his father’s solar, where he could see the glow of light escaping from the crack beneath the door.

Hiding away, like a coward. It was not how he would ever have described his father before today, but there was no other way of putting it. If he is not begging Mother’s forgiveness, then he should be comforting the terrified children whose dishonorable birth turned them into pawns.

Robb paused outside Jon’s door, then rapped lightly with his knuckles. A few moments passed before the door opened, and it was not Jon who he found himself staring at, but rather his smaller counterpart. Willam, Robb reminded himself.

“Would you like to come in?” Willam asked, gazing at him with such raw longing that Robb found himself torn between tenderness and fresh fury.

Did Father even look in upon them since hiding them away in Jon’s chamber? A glance past him revealed no Jon. His twin sat on the bed, his gaze at Robb more wary, and telltale plates from the kitchen were stacked on the small table in the corner of the room. Their supper, taken alone to spare the family further shame today, when it was their father who should be shouldering its brunt.

His little half-brothers were innocent in this. Had they even known of their origins? They had the bearing of highborn children, but none of Jon’s quiet acceptance of his lesser standing.

“Yes,” Robb said, realizing he had not answered. He stepped into the room, quietly closing the door behind him, and found that the other child had risen to his feet, though he maintained his distance. “I—” Has Father even told them of their siblings? “I am your half-brother, Robb.”

The boys reintroduced themselves, Willam tripping over his own name. Robb wondered whether their mother had knowingly named another son after her first. Or was Jon’s name of their father’s choosing?

Now that he was in the room with them, Robb did not know what to say. His gaze kept straying to Raymar, who was as unalike his trueborn siblings as Ghost was to his littermates, as though their birth had split them between each parent.

That is what she looked like, then. The woman he traded his honor for. Pale hair, silver as the moon’s glow through the window, his eyes an unnatural violet. They both shared Jon’s slighter build, which must have come from her as well.

A foreign woman, with that kind of coloring. A courtesan, perhaps. That was the fancy name they gave their whores across the Narrow Sea, and bravos fought for the honor of bedding them. But where had his father stumbled across her?

He had been silent for too long, Robb realized. He did not know what to say to them. “Where is Jon?”

“He went to take Ghost back to the kennels.”

“Oh.” He felt almost numb, staring into the face of a strange child who looked like his brother, and another who looked like betrayal. “How are you faring? Did your captors harm you?”

There were no obvious bruises or cuts upon them, but then, his father had said that their captors had dosed them with dreamwine. The twins assured him, however, that they had been unharmed—unbound, even.

“He said that if either of us caused trouble, he would hurt the other.” It was the first Raymar had spoken since introducing himself, his expression haunted. Willam too had tensed, watching his twin with obvious upset.

I should not have asked, Robb thought, chagrined. Not when they have yet to sleep. These are questions for morning.

“Father’s men will find him,” he said, offering his best reassuring smile, but it did little to ease their distress. In fact, both seemed on the verge of tears now, and he stood helplessly. If it were either Bran or Arya, I would go to them. Comfort them.

But the circumstances of their relation held him back. They did not know him, he reminded himself. It was not the same as Father abandoning them with Jon, all of them tied fully by blood.

Jon’s return caught them all off guard, his brother quiet as his direwolf pup as he slipped back into the room. He halted in place as he marked Robb’s presence, and they stared at one another for what felt like an age. There was no hiding from Jon, or Jon from him.

What hurt was the wariness, as though his brother was expecting Robb to lash out at him, when he had always strived to intervene whenever Jon happened to draw his mother’s ire. And what cut even deeper was the way his brother’s eyes narrowed as they fell upon the twins.

Jon rushed over to them, then turned back to Robb. “What did you say to them?”

“Nothing,” he replied, unclenching his fists. “We greeted one another, and I assured them that whoever kidnapped them would face justice.”

“Is that why you came at this hour?”

“I came to see how you and our new brothers were faring,” Robb said defensively, but he knew it to be a lie when he spoke it, and by the tightening of his mouth, Jon did as well. “What did Father tell you?”

“About my dead mother?” Raymar flinched, and his twin’s hand grabbed for his, but Jon did not seem to have noticed, his gaze locked on Robb. “What business is it of yours?”

Jon did not often snap at him, and he felt himself bristle in response. “It is my mother who was dishonored by their actions.”

His brother regarded him coldly. “She was beautiful, born to a noble house of Lys, and Father swore beneath the weirwood tree that he loved her.”

The words hit like a physical blow. Robb’s fists clenched again, denial rising in his throat, hot and ugly. “Whatever love he had was for her cunt, or he would not have left every time he stuck a bastard in her belly.”

His vision whitened as Jon slammed him into the door, knocking his head back against it. He could taste blood in his mouth from where his teeth had cut into cheek, and it did not matter that he had deliberately provoked his brother, all he could feel was a betrayal that quickly soured to anger.

“I do not care how beautiful her face, but how rotten her heart,” he said, ignoring the glitter of his brother’s eyes as his grip tightened around the fistful of tunic he had grabbed. “She knew of his marriage and still enticed him into her bed. A woman can be highborn and yet a whore.”

Jon’s right hand drew back, and Robb could feel his brother quivering from the effort of refraining from punching him, so he stared back in challenge, inviting it without knowing why. Let him prove himself to be what all bastards are, said an ugly voice that sounded like his mother. But he also longed for a scrap, to throw his fury at someone if it could not be his father.

The castle itself rattled then, a rumble of what sounded like thunder resonating deep within his chest. But the night is clear, he thought in confusion. Jon took a step back from him, the tense moment broken, his expression equally confused.

He became aware then of one of the twins speaking in a foreign tongue. Valyrian, he assumed, gazing past Jon to find Willam speaking frantically as he held back his fiercely struggling brother, who was staring death at Robb even as tears streamed down his face.

It is their mother too. His anger abandoned him, taking its short-lived respite with it and leaving Robb with a fresh guilt atop the hurt that ached within him.

The castle rattled again, the thunder more distant this time. An apology danced along the tip of his tongue, but he could not force it out.

“Just go, Stark,” Jon said, releasing him. His jaw worked a moment, then he turned his back on Robb, steps quick as he closed the distance to the twins and wrapped his brothers both in a tight embrace. His true brothers.

More words caught in Robb’s mouth, some remorseful and others not. Misery rose in his throat, bitter like dandelion tea, and he swallowed it, feeling worse now, with more answers, than he had before foolishly deciding to come here.

Robb left, closing the door quietly behind him, and stood in the hall for a time, staring at the opposite wall. He could hear crying in the other room, soft and pitiable. Father’s doing, he told himself, but it rang hollow. A few minutes passed, Jon’s voice muffled but audible as he spoke to the twins, and Robb awaited another roll of thunder that never came.

Finally he left, mumbling something he could not recall to Cayn when the guardsman’s patrol crossed his path back to his bedchamber. His nerves danced with the need for action, and he desired nothing more than to court his father’s displeasure by slipping out to the stables. He could claim a horse and ride into the wolfswood—find the men in search of the twins’ kidnapper and join their efforts.

But his mother would need him, and Sansa too, so he stared at the ceiling instead and settled into a long, sleepless wait for dawn.

[waterfallofspace]

the act of rubbing their nose leading to more sneezing >>>>>>

whether it's against a finger/palm, desperate and harsh, yet not enough to quell the rising itch, the pressure hitting the wrong spot leaving them gasping—

or a single finger, perhaps just the nail, trailing along the bridge, around the rims, down the tip of their nose, coaxing out that stubborn tickle~